“You don’t mean that I’m…?”
“Still my wife? That’s exactly what I mean.”
“No, I can’t be,” Elizabeth cried desperately. “The marriage was going to be annulled.”
“That was your idea,” Quinn reminded her. “You didn’t wait to see if I was in agreement.”
“But when I swore I had no intention of living with you, the family lawyers drew up the necessary papers and I signed them.”
“Well, I didn’t….”
LEE WILKINSON lives with her husband in a three-hundred-year-old stone cottage in a village in Derbyshire, England. Most winters they get cut off by snow! Both enjoy traveling, and previously joined forces with their daughter and son-in-law, spending a year going round the world “on a shoestring” while their son looked after Kelly, their much-loved German shepherd dog. Lee’s hobbies are reading and gardening and holding impromptu barbecues for her long-suffering family and friends.
Books by Lee Wilkinson
HARLEQUIN PRESENTS®
1991—A HUSBAND’S REVENGE
1933—THE SECRET MOTHER
2024—WEDDING FEVER
LEE WILKINSON
Marriage on Trial
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ONE
GUESSING that the occasion would be a glittering one, Elizabeth, unable to compete, had chosen simplicity: a midnight-blue cocktail dress, silk-clad legs, plain suede court shoes, and her long, sable-dark hair in an elegant chignon.
Her fingers were ringless, and she wore no jewellery apart from a watch on her left wrist and earrings in her neat lobes. Made of silver and mother-of-pearl, intricately curved in the shape of a mermaid, they were extremely old and very beautiful.
She was ready and waiting when the bell rang.
Slipping into her grey, fun-fur coat and picking up her squashy bag, she opened the door of her tiny mews cottage and smiled at the tall, well-built man wearing impeccable evening clothes.
Richard Beaumont bent his head and kissed her cheek. ‘You look delightful, as always.’ His voice was clear and cultured, his blond hair brushed smooth, his aristocratic face full of charm.
The November evening was dark and damp, with more than a hint of fog in the air. By the black-painted door of Cantle Cottage a yellow rose, still flowering bravely, was beaded with moisture, and in the light shed by the old-fashioned street lamps the wet cobbles gleamed like golden fish scales.
‘What time does the sale start?’ Elizabeth asked, as he helped her into the Beaumonts’ chauffeur-driven limousine.
‘Nine-thirty, after a champagne buffet. Because it’s a small, private collection of gems that are being sold, the auction itself should be over fairly quickly.’
Wealthy, and a lover of beautiful things, Richard collected precious stones as another man might collect postage stamps.
‘Will you be bidding for anything special?’ she asked, as the sleek car pulled out of the cul-de-sac hidden away in the heart of town, and turned towards Hyde Park.
His blue eyes shone with enthusiasm. ‘Very special. The Van Hamel diamond.’
‘Is there likely to be much competition?’
‘Though only a relatively small, select group of people have been invited, I’d be surprised if there wasn’t quite a lot.’
‘But you will get it?’
Smiling at the thought of being beaten, he answered with supreme confidence, ‘Oh, yes, I’ll get it. It’s not particularly large, but it’s flawless, and the cutting is exquisite. It would make a perfect engagement ring.’
This last was added so casually that she blinked.
‘You seem surprised.’
She had guessed that he was getting serious, but unsure of herself, of what she wanted, she hadn’t known whether to be pleased or anxious.
Neither an impetuous youth nor a man to mistime things, apparently reading her indecision, Richard had played a waiting game, asking for nothing more than her company, refusing to press her.
Until now.
They were held up by traffic signals, and in the light from the street lamps he studied her half-averted face, the sweep of dark lashes, the straight nose, the warm curve of her lips, the pure line of her jaw. ‘Surely you know I love you and want to marry you?’
Though aware that he was expecting some response to his declaration, thrown by the suddenness of it, she remained silent while her thoughts whirled.
The only son of a baronet, he was a handsome, charismatic man, polished and considerate. A brilliant brain and an unsurpassed knowledge of the world’s stock markets had made him wealthy in his own right, and well respected in business circles.
She was twenty-six. If she wasted this chance, there would be very few other men to come anywhere near him, and she wanted a real home and children while she was still young.
After a moment, his voice even, he added, ‘If the answer’s yes, I thought after the auction we might go back to my apartment?’
As well as the Beaumonts’ large Georgian house in Lombard Square, which Elizabeth knew well, Richard had a suite of rooms at a Park Lane hotel, which she didn’t know at all.
Conventional in many ways, he was making it abundantly clear that, though he’d accepted a more or less platonic relationship so far, he wasn’t prepared to keep on doing so.
It was make-your-mind-up time.
So what was she to do? It was more than five years since her life had fallen apart. She was genuinely fond of Richard, so surely it should be possible to put the past behind her and start living again? To give him the commitment he was asking for?
‘Well, my dear?’ he pressed.
She turned to look at him, her clear, dark grey eyes steady. ‘Yes, I’d like that.’
With a little smile of triumph, he took her hand and squeezed it. As they moved off once more, he said, ‘I don’t see any need for a long engagement, so will you give some thought to a spring wedding…?’
A moment later they were leaving the main road and turning into Belham Place. Belham House, where the sale was being held, was a blaze of lights.
Originally a small palace, the beautiful old building was set back behind a grey stone wall surmounted by black and gold spiked railings.
A uniformed policeman was standing by the tall, ornamental, wrought-iron gates. After a glance at Richard’s gilt-edged invitation card, he waved them through.
The chauffeur drove past an apron crowded with cars and set them down by an imposing, studded door guarded by a plain-clothes officer.
‘You needn’t wait, Smithers,’ Richard informed his driver crisply. ‘We’ll get a taxi back.’
Elizabeth gave him full marks for discretion.
Once inside the marble-floored and pillared foyer her coat was whisked away by a liveried attendant. A moment or two later they were being greeted by their silver-haired host—an impoverished earl, she learnt later—before being handed a glass of vintage champagne.
When they joined the other well-dressed guests in the chandelier-lit dining hall, Richard introduced her to several of his acquaintances, then, sotto voce, pointed out a couple of security men mingling inconspicuously with the crowd.
During an excellent buffet, where the champagne flowed freely, her companion appeared to be his usual cool, relaxed self, but she could sense a simmering excitement, a feeling of expectancy beneath the surface calm.
As nine-thirty approached, the assembled company moved through to the salesroom: a large salon, with
double doors at each end. At the entrance they were each presented with a catalogue, before being shown to their seats.
A slim, sprightly man with fair, thinning hair carefully styled to hide incipient baldness, took his place on the auctioneer’s stand. He tapped with his gavel, and the sale began.
Some exceptional stones, both cut and uncut, came up but, his face impassive, Richard showed no particular interest until the last item was reached.
Clearing his throat, the auctioneer announced, ‘The final lot is a diamond of the first water, known as the Van Hamel…’
He went on to give precise details of its provenance, before suggesting, ‘May I start the ball rolling at two hundred and fifty thousand pounds?’
The bidding moved cautiously, as would-be buyers tried to judge the extent of the opposition. Richard watched and waited, his hands lying lightly in his lap, making no move.
Only when the price had reached three hundred and fifty thousand did he join the fray with a flick of his catalogue.
Two of the other bidders dropped out fairly quickly, making it a straight fight between Richard and a middle-aged, genteel-looking lady, whom earlier he’d identified as a dealer.
A ruby flashing fire whenever she raised her hand, she hung on tenaciously, and the price had been pushed up another fifty thousand before she shook her head, signalling defeat.
‘Four hundred thousand pounds,’ the auctioneer repeated for the third time, and raised his gavel.
Richard gave a murmur of satisfaction and smiled at Elizabeth, who smiled back.
But, his gaze travelling to the rear of the room, the auctioneer paused. Having lifted his brows questioningly, he nodded and announced, ‘Four hundred and fifty thousand pounds.’
A murmur of excitement rippled through the audience like a breeze through a cornfield.
Up till now, bidders had been raising the price by five or ten thousand pounds a time. The newcomer had raised it by fifty thousand in a single bid.
It was tactics, meant to be the coup de grâce, she realized dazedly.
Momentarily, Richard looked staggered, then, his blue eyes gleaming with the light of battle, he coolly topped the previous bid by the same amount.
Impassively, the auctioneer repeated the latest figure and looked across at the other contender, who responded promptly.
Elizabeth bit her lip. She’d been hoping that dramatic first bid was the only shot in the newcomer’s armoury. Clearly it wasn’t.
Raising it another fifty thousand, Richard asked in an undertone, ‘Can you see who’s bidding against me?’
She turned to peer cautiously over her shoulder, and saw a man wearing immaculate evening dress lounging nonchalantly against the far wall. He was looking away from her, but the arrogant set of that dark head, the easy stance were only too familiar.
The breath caught in her throat and her heart seemed to stop. No, no, it couldn’t be Quinn. It couldn’t.
He moved slightly, giving her a clear view of his hawk-like profile.
Oh, dear God, it was! There was no mistaking that powerful, hard-boned face… She felt faint and dizzy, as if all the blood was draining from her body.
While shock kept her eyes fixed on him, he raised the bidding once more with a slight movement of his index finger.
Until then she hadn’t considered the possibility that Richard might lose. Now she realized it was a battle of the giants.
Terrified that if she kept on looking Quinn might notice her, she dragged her gaze away and turned to the front.
Richard gave her a questioning glance.
Her mouth desert-dry, she shook her head.
Another flick of his catalogue and he was momentarily on top, the bidding running now at seven hundred thousand.
There was a slight pause, and Elizabeth felt a stir of hope. Then the auctioneer was announcing, ‘Eight hundred thousand pounds.’
A rise of one hundred thousand pounds.
The audience gasped.
Richard’s jaw tightened, and with an abrupt movement he indicated that his part in the proceedings had ended.
Elizabeth, shaken to the core, was bitterly sorry for him. She guessed that, though he would probably have given even more for the diamond, in the face of such competition he must have thought it lunacy to continue bidding.
The moment the sale was declared over, he rose, and, a hand beneath her elbow, helped her to her feet. Although he was hiding his disappointment and chagrin beneath a spurious air of calm, it was obvious he couldn’t wait to get out of the place.
Neither could she.
Quinn mustn’t see her. He mustn’t. She stifled a panicky urge to push her way through the crowd and bolt.
Richard’s hand at her waist, a hollow sensation in the pit of her stomach, she started to move towards the nearest exit as fast as the slow-moving throng would allow.
A glimpse of a tall, dark-haired man brought her heart into her mouth, but a second look showed he was at least forty, with a beefy face and a paunch.
They had reached the doors when one of Richard’s acquaintances drew level. ‘Hard luck,’ he remarked sympathetically. ‘But what can you do against opposition like that?’
‘Did you see who it was?’
‘Yes, it was Quinn Durville, a multimillionaire banker from the States. I heard a whisper that he came over specially, so he must have intended to get it.’
‘I should have known,’ Richard said morosely as the other man moved away. ‘I’ve come up against Durville before…’
Elizabeth felt as though she’d been kicked in the solar plexus. She had never dreamt that the two men might have met. It was so unlikely. Yet wasn’t there an old saying ‘The most unlikely thing to happen is nearly always the thing that does happen’?
His face set, Richard was going on, ‘When it’s something he wants, the swine doesn’t give any quarter, and he won’t let anything stand in his way.’
It was the simple truth. About six weeks after she’d left him, a man who was obviously a hired detective had tracked her down and started to watch her every move.
Realizing then how utterly ruthless Quinn could be, and knowing she could never go back to him, she had been forced to run, to change her name and find a fresh place to hide.
She shuddered at the memory.
Richard felt the slight movement and, his manner cool and controlled again after that brief, betraying flash of anger, asked, ‘You don’t know Durville, do you?’
Somehow she found her voice and answered, ‘No.’
‘Is there something wrong?’ Richard sounded solicitous. ‘You’re looking distinctly pale.’
‘I’m fine, really. I expect it’s just reaction.’
Coffee was being served in the dining hall. ‘Would you like to sit down and have a cup?’ he suggested.
‘No!’ Then, more moderately, she said, ‘No, thank you.’
His relief was evident. ‘In that case I’ll get your coat.’
Though he returned quite quickly with it over his arm, to Elizabeth it seemed a long time before she’d slipped it on and they were making their way across the foyer.
They were nearing the door when a man with crisp, peat-dark hair, easily topping six feet, and looking even bigger because of the breadth of his shoulders, appeared from behind a pillar.
As if he’d been lying in wait to intercept them, he moved purposefully to block their way.
Elizabeth’s heart lurched and began to race with suffocating speed. Face to face with this man she had hoped never to see again, she tried to stay calm, to convince herself that no matter what happened he could no longer hurt her.
But she was unable to do either. She felt sick with fear and remembered pain.
Sparing her barely a glance, the newcomer held out his hand to Richard. ‘Ah, Beaumont… You put up a good fight.’ The words only just escaped being patronizing.
Hiding his antagonism, Richard shook the proffered hand and remarked, ‘I fancy this makes us even?’<
br />
‘I hardly think so,’ Quinn disagreed smoothly.
There was a brief pause. When he showed no sign of moving away, impelled by good manners, Richard began the necessary introduction.
‘Elizabeth, may I present Mr Quinn Durville…?’
A kind of despairing pride kept her head high while she looked into that lean, autocratic face, with its high-bridged nose and chiselled mouth, and waited for Quinn to say they knew each other very well.
Feeling the tension already crackling between the two men, she was well aware that Richard would find the news unwelcome, to say the least.
It wouldn’t have been quite so bad if she’d confessed to knowing Quinn when he’d asked her… But, by denying it, she had effectively involved herself in a deception.
‘Durville, my fiancée, Miss Cavendish.’
Quinn took her hand and said a perfunctory, ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Cavendish.’ His glance was cool and impersonal and, to her amazement, the greeting held nothing but conventional courtesy.
She drew a deep, unsteady breath, hardly daring to believe he hadn’t recognized her.
Of course he wouldn’t know the name Cavendish, and, having been christened Josian Elizabeth, she had been known from childhood as Jo…
Added to that she had altered a great deal in the time they’d been apart. Then, her fine bones had been smudged beneath a layer of puppy fat, her thick, silky eyebrows unshaped, her hair short and curly.
But perhaps the biggest change lay in her manner. Gone was the curvaceous, casually dressed girl, with a smiling mouth and laughing eyes, who had been as naïve and friendly as a Labrador puppy.
In her place was a slender, elegantly dressed woman, poised and sophisticated, her grey eyes guarded, her mouth vulnerable.
Oh, yes, she’d altered. Enough, it seemed, to save the stress and trauma that would surely have followed if Quinn had identified her.
As his warm clasp closed around her cold fingers, she felt her legs start to tremble and every nerve-ending in her body tighten in response to his touch.
He had always possessed a potent physical attraction that had been able to draw her like a magnet and hold her even against her will.
Marriage on Trial Page 1
